The Root Cause Of All Evil
by si-star-x
Summary: A drunken Dean almost face-plants, but manages to force his hands out first, bruising his palms and spraining his wrists. Sam has to Deal with the morning-after mess Dean has made of himself, and just general talk about how they really shouldn't do this.


As Sam lay in bed replaying the events of the previous night; trying to piece together what the heck had happened, he realised that the one saving grace was that Dean had managed to break his fall with his hands. Sam knew that if those hands had not been forced out it would have been his face colliding with the tarmac. Loose stones would have burrowed deep into delicate flesh instead of the calloused palms of his hands, blood would have been seeping through rough scratches instead of pooling into the dense flesh at the base of his thumbs. It was his hands that were the first body part to hit the floor, and although Dean's consciousness had been lacking, Sam knew he had been aware enough to feel the lance of pain that shot through his hands, wrists and arms as his weight crashed down.

Sam had watched the scene with blurry vision, his own legs barely keeping him upright and reflexes not fast enough to provide any assistance before it was too late.

Dean was immediately curled around his hands, both appendages clutched tight against his black t-shirt. "S'm..." He had choked, words slurred into a state of almost incoherent murmur. "M'hands..."

Sam knew that if Dean had stumbled to the point of tripping over under any other circumstances, he would have bounced back to his feet almost instantly. But there, then, in a state of absolute alcohol-induced dizziness, Sam knew that if any bouncing back was attempted, Dean would have just careened into the ground again and it probably wouldn't be just his hands that suffered the impact.

Sam had been stumbling along with him, and although he hadn't been able to keep Dean upright, he managed to crouch down quickly, the word only spinning him lightly and throwing him marginally off-kilter.

Dean's eyes had slammed shut the moment he met the cold floor and he hadn't pulled them back open immediately. His head must have been spinning inside the confines of his closed eyes and gritted teeth, and although Sam knew he was barely able to comprehend how he had ended up on the floor, the lines of pain echoed the sure fire that Dean must have felt radiating from both of his hands. The sight was an obscene reminder that Dean would be waking up with far more than a hangover.

"S'mmy..." Dean had mumbled, flexing his fingers on both hands and letting out a startled gasp. "Th'fuck did I do?" Sam remembers how all of the words seemed to merge into one.

"You planted your drunk ass on the floor." Sam had responded, amusement in his voice and a grin across his face. He had been drinking too, sure, but he hadn't been ordering doubles at the bar and downing one before he even got back to the table. Dean thought he had been sneaky, but Sam saw all.

Sam remembered watching Dean as he uncurled himself slightly, watching him tilt his head back and obviously regretting the action as it evidently caused the dizziness to increase tenfold.

"S'm..." Dean's voice had tore through the drunken haze that had settled around them, "St'p spinnin' me."

"That's not me, man." Sam had chuckled, still grinning, sitting back on his heels. "Shall we get up?"

Sam knew that Dean had planned to nod, but instead his body reneged against him and he hadn't shifted. "M'hands... s'riously..."

"You shouldn't have broken your fall like that, idiot. Drop and roll, that's what you taught me,." Sam had found the whole situation hilarious; the grin still bright against his tanned skin.

Dean had just groaned again as he tentatively pushed his fingers too far and made an effort to prise his eyes open. Thankfully the parking lot was dark, because Sam was pretty sure that any bright lights would have had his brother passing out.

"Lemme see." Sam had nodded whilst leaning forwards and trailing down his brother's right arm, pausing when he reached the elbow. "Just untangle for a second."

"N't lettin' y'touch me..." Sam could picture Dean shaking his head once, gasping as it sent him spinning again, "Y'don' know wha' yer doin'..."

"I'm pretty sure they'd kick you out of the ER in this state." Sam was still grinning as he pushed his hand further without permission. "Move your arms."

Dean had given in, slowly releasing the tension in his elbows as he unlocked the position, straightening his body so that his elbows were braced against his stomach and hands were in view.

Sam knew that he had started to feel nauseous at that point, and looking back, he can't believe that he allowed himself to be enticed into the situation. Freakin' Dean and his need to dissolve all troubles in a bottle of whiskey. And it was nearly a whole bottle this time. Jesus.

His vision had still been doubled, but he could see Dean's hands well enough. He brushed his own hand down to his brother's right wrist and then moved his other over to the left, vividly remembers that they felt and looked fine; healthy. Dean didn't cry out and from that alone, Sam's was satisfied that there was no serious damage. But he was drunk too, and yeah, alcohol does impair cognition. Perhaps if he'd been alert he would have noticed the swelling wrists.

"S'not my wrists..." Dean had slurred, "Palms, S'mmy. Burnin'."

At Dean's words, Sam had carefully tilted his head to the side, remembers having to clamp down his lips at the rise of nausea, "Huh." He had said as he got a view of Dean's upturned hands against the backdrop of dim light. "You've scraped 'em up, Dean. A bit bruised but you'll be fine."

Whilst lying in bed taking in the morning-after feeling, Sam knew that if they had been in a sober state, he would have coherently recognised that Dean's got bruises on the heels of his hands, blood seeping and darkening under the skin, and it's probably going to lead to more pain and loss of function than able to drunkenly comprehend. But they were both drunk, and Dean wasn't screaming in pain nor was there any obvious deformities that would have made Sam think anything was seriously wrong.

"It hurts." Dean's eyebrows had been drunkenly forced into a furrow. "Look..." Sam remembers ducking as Dean thrust both hands forwards, the action causing his body to follow and he was then laying on his side, hands pressed against Sam's chest and pushing him down onto the floor too. "Shit."

"I can't believe you." Sam had responded with a chuckle, his ninja-reflexes - although not awesome enough to catch Dean before he fell - pretty much rocked at keeping his ass up off the ground. "You are wasted, man."

"Yer wasted too." Dean voice was slurred as his eyes had lifted his to catch Sam's gaze. "Eyes'r' red."

Sam remembers that he had just grinned back at Dean and shook his head. Alcohol really did limit Dean's ability to be coherent and lucid, so Sam had just shaken his head and brushed a few misbehaving strands of hair from his face. "You up for the walk back to the motel, or are we staying here tonight?" He had asked, amusement still rife in his tone.

"Motel?" Dean had repeated dumbly, "Where's th'car?"

"At the motel. This was your idea, wiseass."

"Wha' idea?" Dean's eyebrows were creased again. "Y'make no sense."

"You make no sense!" Sam remembers cackling as he pushed himself up off the floor. "You drunken fool."

Dean hadn't responded, instead Sam recalls watching his brother twist his body, landing haphazardly on his back, eyes instantly locked with an upward gaze towards the sky. "Stars..." He had mumbled quietly, clutching his sore hands to his chest. "S'pretty."

"Shall I leave you here to stargaze?" Sam had asked, the grin rising once more, "Or are you coming before you're actually unconscious? 'Cause I sure as hell can't carry you back. You're like a dead-weight when you're unconscious, man, and I'm barely stable as it is."

As if to prove the words, Sam knew he had faltered slightly as he bent down to offer Dean a shaking hand.

"'m not even drunk." Dean was still slurring defiantly, sliding his boots along the floor so that his knees were bent. "Jus' hurt. M'hands..."

"OK." Sam remembers conceding. "You're not drunk. Still gotta get back to the motel though."

Then nothing.

Sam doesn't remember how they managed to get back to the motel. He doesn't remember how Dean came to have two soaking wet ice packs crudely bandaged to his hands, or why Dean has all of the pillows and he has none. He doesn't know why he still has one shoe on or why Dean is shirtless and stripped down to his boxers.

Goddamn alcohol.

But all things considered, Sam is almost certain that he remembers more than Dean will, and the idea of rousing his brother from a state of dreamless alcohol-induced sleep is not a pleasant idea. He doesn't feel too bad, head's a little fuzzy has stomach hasn't quite settled, there's a faint taste of puke on his tongue and he wonders if he threw up last night – more than likely – but Dean. Dean was wrecked last night. He was completely out of it and falling on his ass proved it. It was funny, sure, but Sam knew he would have to have a close inspection of those hands later. If they looked 'bruised and scraped up' last night moments after impact, who knows what kind of state they'll be in now. He's fairly certain that it'll be bruised and throbbing palms at best, sprained wrists at worst, and either way they will deal. They always deal.

He'll just investigate as soon as he gets motivation enough to move out of bed. Sam knows his stomach is going to lurch as soon as he shifts position, he's always been a morning-after sufferer and wants to hold off the projectile vomit for as long as possible.

Freakin' Dean and his ability to convince him to get drunk far too often.

Sam is still sprawled across the bed fifteen minutes later, his stomach-contents feeling relatively safe and the pounding headache receding to a dull remnant. He's considering getting up to pee and to check that he hasn't drunkenly shaved off his eyebrows, but before he can make any headway in getting up, Dean is groaning in the bed next to him.

"Sam?" His voice is still slightly slurred and tentative. "Am I dead?"

The words cause Sam to grin, and his hand darts to his forehead as pulling his mouth into a smile seemed to kick-start his headache again. "Dead?" He repeats, "No."

He hears his brother shift against the scratchy motel bed sheets and a wince isn't far behind.

"The fuck is this on my hands?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Sam tests his head in ability to shift from side to side, and slowly chances the motion of pulling his body into a seated position. "What do you remember?"

"Whiskey." Dean replies slowly, "Feeling awesome. Now I feel like hell. What happened?"

Sam took an intake of breath, as his premonition was proved true; Dean didn't remember a damn thing.

Ten minutes later after a succinct replay of the evening from Sam's point of view and several scoffs of disbelief, Dean was still in a state of denial, shaking his head as vehemently as the spinning room would allow.

"I must've got in a fight or something. I don't just fall over."

"You were drunk, Dean."

"You were drunk too!"

"It must have hit me slower. I don't remember getting back here... I don't..." Sam glanced towards the hands still covered in melted ice packs. "Your hands."

"Like dead-weights." Dean responds, obviously doesn't make any effort to move them. "Looks like you still managed to find the med kit."

"Yeah." Sam nods, he knows he needs to haul his ass up and check Dean over, make sure they're good to mope in the motel and a trip to the nearest hospital isn't in order.

"I don't think the damage is serious." Dean speaks as though answering Sam's mental questions. "Fingers aren't working great, guess I must've shot my wrists to hell too."

"I'll get some more ice soon."

"Freakin' alcohol." Dean sighs, closes his eyes again. "Y'should go get some coffee when you're feeling up to it."

Sam grins, makes the move to his feet and then as good as pounces on his brother's right hand.

"Let's do this first."

The melted ice packs are floppy as Sam reaches over, a quick touch telling him that they are still cold although less viscous. It makes him wonder what time they got back to the motel, had they stumbled along the highway for two hours? Or had they done it in ten minutes?

Freakin' alcohol and its ability to steal life away from you.

"Ow!" Dean lets out a startled yelp as Sam finds the end of the bandage and gives it an unceremonious tug. "Be more careful, will ya?"

"Sorry." Sam murmurs, "I thought the alcohol might still be numbing the pain."

"Ha-ha." Dean rolls his eyes and then closes them. He could still feel the alcohol coursing through his body and he knew that if he got pulled over by the cops for driving the Impala too fast or running a red, he'd be taken to the station for sure.

Sam is gentler as he finishes the task, catching the ice pack as it falls away from his brother's hand. The sight causes him to grimace; the base of Dean's thumb is mottled a deep purple and red in places, slightly raised and scraped too; although Sam doesn't think any loose gravel is embedded there - that was a scene he didn't want to play out again.

"Crap." Sam finds himself muttering against his better judgement, and Dean's eyes are instantly opened and locked on the hand that Sam is currently inspecting.

"Did I mess myself up?" He offers sheepishly.

Sam thinks that Dean's wrist is sprained – it's slightly puffy and a similar but fainter ring of bruising is developing around his wrist, and when his fingers skim the flesh Dean lets out a hiss of pain.

"Yeah." Sam replies with one eyebrow lifted slightly. "Your wrist is probably sprained, and I'm guessing the other one is the same."

Dean just closes his eyes again and lets himself sink against his pillows; lots of pillow. It's pretty comfortable.

"Hey, Sam?" He speaks softly as he feels his brother set his hand down on the mattress and then move over to the other side.

Sam smiles slightly, it's always quite amusing to hear Dean sound so pitiful when he's got a hangover, and he supposes with the added arm injuries he's just completely down-and-out about it all. "Hm?"

"When did I get naked?"

Sam snorts and breathes out a whiny "Ow!" as it causes a pulse of pain to slash through his cognition, "Sometime between being in the parking lot and being back here."

"But my clothes are here, right?"

At Dean's words, Sam chokes out a startled gasp and looks around; didn't even think to check. He cranes his neck to where he can see the blue of Dean's jeans peaking out from the half-closed bathroom door. "Yeah." He replies, letting out a sigh of relief, "I can see your jeans."

"Well thank the Lord for small mercies."

"I know. Imagine how awkward that would have been."

"Gotta be honest with you, Sammy," Dean lets his lips fall into a smile, "I'd have been more concerned about your desire to see me naked than the fact I'd lost my clothes."

"I'm not so sure." Sam shrugs as he turns his attention back to Dean's left hand and begins to unravel the bandage with more care, "I think you'd miss that Dean Wesson ID card."

He knows it's true as the smile appears again and Dean lets out a chuckle.

Sam works in silence for a minute or so as he pulls away the bandage and lets the second melted ice pack drop to the floor. He knows that soon Dean is going to be sore, because the coldness was surely still providing a numbing function to the bruised and swollen palms, and as they heat up it's not going to be pleasant. The left wrist is of a similar state, perhaps a little more swollen and the bruising a little starker against the pale of Dean's hands.

"Hope your head is better than mine." Dean mumbles as he keeps his eyes clenched shut in an attempt to block out the light.

"It's not too bad, actually." Sam shrugs as he turns over Dean's hand to get a better look, "My stomach tends to feel the worst of it."

"As long as you don't toss your cookies over me." Dean smirks, face pinching as Sam carefully manipulates his wrist.

"I won't, and I think you'll survive." Sam nods matter of fact even though he can see that Dean's eyes aren't open. "I just need to bandage you up, get some ice and then sign you off work for a week."

"A week? Y'think?" Dean chuckles, "A couple of days and I'll be good. You're into this Nurse Sammy shit in a big way."

Sam furrows his eyebrows and his back creaks as he pulls himself back up to his full stature. "I don't like it, you jerk."

It's just the only time we get to be close.

"Just hurry up. I want coffee."

"You always want coffee."

Dean tilts his head to the side and lets one eye crack open. "Not always."

"When you don't want coffee," Sam continues, fumbling around for the med kit, which although was easily found when drunk last night, he can't seem to find it now. "You want alcohol."

"And when you don't want alcohol or coffee," Sam continues from the bathroom, "You want sex."

"You know me too well, Sammy."

Sam appears a couple of seconds later, med kit balancing on one hand and the other searching through for some more supportive bandages. "This was in the shower."

"If only we had CCTV in here." Dean smiled, "I'd love to see that tape."

"Dude." Sam scrunched up his nose, shaking his head. "We really need to stop drinking."

"It was a good night."

"From what you remember. Which isn't much."

"But you remember it, Sam, and that's all that matters."

"I only remember you falling on your ass."

"I still think that's a lie. I bet I was tryin'a hustle some pool and I stepped up to the biggest guy in there. My hands are wrecked from the punches, right?"

"Wrong." Sam grins, "You definitely fell on your ass."

Sam is quite surprised by the atmosphere in the room; he had pretty much expected Dean to whine and bitch and moan about being hurt and then just curl up into a ball and sleep for the remainder of the day. But Dean seemed happy. Hung-over, but happy. Happy was always a good thing, even if it was floating around with headaches and bruised palms and nausea.

"Let's make a pact." Sam speaks as he brushes a gauze pad – doused in alcohol of another kind - across Dean's palm, soaking up the dirt and dried blood. "We don't drink unless we need to."

"Our lives suck, Sam." Dean hisses as the alcohol seeps into the grazes, "We could justify drinking every single day."

Sam lets the words settle for a moment and then tilts his head to one side, "What did we do when Dad was around? Before I went off to Stanford, before things got... bad."

"What do you mean?" Dean asks softly, watching Sam's ministrations as he starts to wrap an elasticated bandage around his left wrist, lets his body stiffen as the movements cause the throb to intensify but keeps his lips pursed.

"We didn't drink back then. What did we do?"

"We threw punches." Dean offered, eyebrows rising. "At each other. At walls. I don't think I can remember a time when I didn't have a broken knuckle or ache."

Sam nods his head softly, waits for signs of pain as he pulls tension around Dean's wrist, "Then I suppose drinking isn't so bad.

"It's not." Dean agrees with a smile. "It's just..." He looks down towards the hand Sam is currently wrapping. "We should stick to the 'feeling awesome' and avoid the 'feeling like hell'."

"I think the two go hand in hand, Dean." Sam chuckles, setting his brother's injured hand down on the mattress. "I still only have one shoe on, and unlike your jeans, I can't seem to see it anywhere. I definitely think we need to limit our alcohol consumption."

"We're such reprobates." Dean grins, the smile reaching his eyes. "Thanks for patching me up, Sammy. I'll be more careful on our next bar crawl."

Sam tells himself that it will never happen again, but then again, he can still remember at least ten times in the last two months where he's told himself the same thing.


End file.
